Gloire Sans Fin
by redex
Summary: RegulusRemus. Glory without end, and a whore and refusals.


My first Regulus-centric fic. Fear, for I have entered the fandom. For Lb, who is too persistant for her own good. ;)

* * *

Give me something I've never felt  
Give me something that I understand  
Give me something I'll never loose

I can

You are not him   
Inside me   
You are not here   
Yeah my life is shit

- ELLEGARDEN _Mr. Feather_

He's quiet, in a screaming sort of way. His hair falls in front of his eyes, he avoids eye contact with anyone, and if caught glares fierce as a cornered snake. Those eyes are not green or yellow, though - only the purest blue-black could settle in such a hautily moulded face. The simmering anger and viciousness waiting to lash out would have been more easily suited to a more humble face and Remus is reminded of the plasticised muggle stars and their too perfect exteriors. Regulus Black does not sit comfortably in his body.

Remus Lupin is sure of his thoughts on this subject, because he has spent too many hours memorizing Regulus Black to be wrong. This is similar to the feelings before exams; he knows he knows everything there is to know, and yet he still reviews his notes to the very last minute. There is always a detail he has missed.

---

"Why do you insist upon staring at me!"

Remus looked up from his book, more confused to be pulled out of his semi-fictional world of Combray than by the boy standing in front of him. The sound of birds and the beauty of the country side pulled away from his ears and eyes, and he looked up at a figure that slid easily into the lingering memory of that french countryside. They said that there was even some Bourbon blood lingering in the House of Black - perhaps it was true.

"Pardon?" he hummed dreamily, a slightly bemused smile hovering around his lips at the thought of Sirius Black as a young Swann in love.

Regulus huffed and dropped his books with a bang on the table between them, collapsing down into the overstuffed chair like he can no longer bear his own weight.

"Nevermind."

---

He closes his eyes as his body responds and his heart closes itself off. Sex is good for that, for shutting off his brain and letting everything fade to a echoing hum of background noise for the blaringly loud present.

He doesn't want to be able to see who's fucking him against the wooden panneled walls of the library this late at night, and if he doesn't think too hard he doesn't even need to remember a name or a face. This is why Sirius calls him a whore, rightly so, but he doesn't think it's much of an insult. In the end it is just a kind of wisdom.

When his breath comes in pants, nearly condencing in the fridged air, he hears the doors open and footsteps come in. The body leaves his unpleasently cold as a curse drops him to the ground and he focuses on keeping his legs under him - his eyes do not open untill he hears a unwelcomely familiar voice break through the rustle of his dissapearing partner for the evening.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt..."

He's tired all of a sudden, the adreniline rush lost, and snarky with it.

"You'll have to make up for his position, you know," and his eyes flicker open to adjust to the faint light. A taller, lighter figure is standing in the shadow of one of the bookcases, the outline of a darker book pressed against it's chest. He feels like laughing and does: a cold, dry sound like dead, rustling leaves.

"I think you should go back to your domitory."

But Remus Lupin does not sound sure, and says this as if quoting a book. He is waiting to be convinced, and Regulus is all too willing to do the convincing. He's still horney, and there is still pleanty of night to go around.

His eyes are clear enough, now, to let him step forward without incident, to see the shiver that looks like the quiver of the animal waiting to flee when the preditor arrives. Regulus does not like to think of himself as a preditor and so he stops, holding a hand out in peace.

"Come on," he coaxes, and he's surprised when long, bitten fingers slide over the palm of his hand and a book is set down on a table. Chapped, flavorful lips press down on him when the shadow, like a dementor that only brings with it inexplicable desire, passes over him.

"Fuck me," he whispers, delirious and dizzy.

The answer is a firm "No," that does not broke any argument.

And then it's cold again, except for his hand, which still has a firm grip wrapped around it.

"I'll walk you back home."


End file.
